


Going Home

by petunia846



Category: Burn Notice
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-06
Updated: 2010-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-07 01:32:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petunia846/pseuds/petunia846
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fiona is going home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going Home

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a prompt on lj, this is mostly just some practice for another piece I'm working on…trying to find my Fiona voice. I appreciate any reviews.

I was going home.

I had packed up all the firearms, ammunition, shoes, and snow globes and I was going home. I was going back to the land of saints and scholars, back to my family and childhood haunts, and back to all the ghosts of my past. Michael seemed to think I was happy about it, that it was something to look forward to. Sure my mother is there, and my brothers, but it isn’t my only home anymore.

There’s a strange duality in growing up. The word “home” no longer fits easily into a Webster’s-like definition. Home can be a lot of things. It can simultaneously be the place where you first learned to say, “I love you,” and the place where you _really_ learned to care. It can be the place where you learned right from wrong and the place where you _actually_ learned to give a damn about your actions and their consequences. Obviously, in the literal sense, I’d grown up in Ireland, but I like to think I’ve done a fair amount of growing up in Miami as well.

Michael slows the Charger to a stop at the light. After a couple of nights on his mother’s couch I’d begged him to take me over to my place. I hadn’t been quite ready to leave when all the madness started, so there are still sheets on the bed and there is still food in the fridge.

He’s been quiet and he hasn’t looked at me since he helped me into the car. The short drive has been the first real time we’ve had to ourselves since we were at the safe house.

His voice is almost imperceptible over the engine idling. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to go home, Fi.”

And I can’t help but laugh, a giddy, jubilant laugh that takes him by surprise. I steal his hand off the steering wheel with one of my own and cup his chin with the other, a smile on my face as his eyes meet and question mine.

“What are you talking about, Michael? Where do you think we’re going? I _am_ going home…right now…with you.”


End file.
